


Stalemate

by Miracule



Category: Hornblower (TV)
Genre: Angst, Discussion of Death and Dying, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Archie/Horatio, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-04
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:28:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24541573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miracule/pseuds/Miracule
Summary: Mr. Bush and Mr. Kennedy fail to understand each other.Or, scenes from a night at the infirmary in Kingston.
Relationships: William Bush & Archie Kennedy
Comments: 4
Kudos: 22





	Stalemate

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome aboard HMS Ouch, setting sail to Big Mood Island. Keep your hands and feet inside the vessel at all times.

The heat of Kingston is not at all what Lieutenant Bush imagined it would be. He imagined an oppressive sort of air, heavy and humid, stifling. But within the white walls of the infirmary, the air is mild, and at night, the singing of crickets and tree frogs lulls him into something approaching calm. But he doesn’t sleep. Not well, anyway. The pain keeps him awake, as does his preoccupation with the state of the man in the bed next to him. 

So, he lies half-awake, gazing at the dark cracks in the ceiling above his head. At the moment, Kennedy’s breathing is shallow yet regular, suggesting that he has finally fallen asleep. Given the church bell that sounded some time ago, Bush guesses that it must be close to one in the morning. He inclines his head toward the sound of Kennedy’s breath. 

So often, during his waking hours, Kennedy’s breathing is so laborious that Bush finds himself feeling ill from listening to it. He is afraid that at any moment, Kennedy will simply shudder and cease to draw breath altogether. Bush is loath to admit it, but he is terribly afraid of that inevitable silence. 

A small gasp draws Bush from his musings. Kennedy lets out a pitiful whine, and Bush finds himself shifting toward the edge of his bed. 

“Mr. Kennedy,” he murmurs, keeping his voice low. “Are you all right?”

No answer. 

“ _Mr. Kennedy_.”

No answer. Just short, uneven breaths. 

Bush props himself up on his elbows, ignoring the pain that blossoms in his belly. “Archie?” he tries. The name sounds odd on his lips. He is not familiar enough with the man to use it. 

Still, nothing. Bush struggles onto his side, leaning into the dark between their beds. 

“Horatio?” Kennedy whimpers. 

Bush falters. “I… No, it’s me. It’s William.” Bush scrubs a hand over his face. There is sweat gathering at his brow, despite the cool air. Something about the manner in which Kennedy had said his friend’s name— _Horatio_ —made Bush feel as if he’d trespassed into some sacred, secret territory. 

“Mr. Bush,” Kennedy sighs, coming fully awake. “I’m sorry.” 

“Are you all right?”

Kennedy makes a strangled noise that sounds suspiciously like a sob. 

Hissing in pain, Bush swings his legs carefully over the edge of his bed. The floor is pleasantly cold under his feet, but he isn’t sure if he can walk. He tries it, shifting some of his weight to the ground. His knees nearly buckle. No standing, then. Carefully, trembling, he grabs hold of Kennedy’s bed post and uses it as leverage to pull himself across. 

The maneuver works, although he has to catch himself from nearly falling onto Kennedy’s legs. Breathing hard, he shifts his body so that he can see Kennedy’s face in full, illuminated by the dim light from the oil lamp at his bedside. The young man’s cheeks are flushed, although the rest of him is plaster white. 

“I’m sorry,” Kennedy breathes. Bush notices that his eyes are glassy with tears. 

Tersely, Bush reaches for his arm. “I’ll get Clive.” 

“No,” Kennedy shakes his head, and the tears begin to spill over. “No, I don’t need him.” 

Bush frowns. “He can give you a dose of laudanum, or—”

“No,” Kennedy moans, curling his fingers around Bush’s sleeve, holding him fast. “None of that. Please.”

“All right,” Bush agrees, although he looks toward the hallway to find the young surgeon’s mate who is usually on duty during the small hours of the morning. He is not there, however—only the stocky marine sergeant, slumped, asleep in his chair. 

“Don’t, Mr. Bush, _please_.” 

“All right. All right, man,” Bush shushes him. “If you’re sure.”

Kennedy nods, calmer. “D’you call me Archie?” 

Bush opens mouth. “I’m sorry. It’s too familiar?” 

“S’all right. May I call you William, then?”

“Yes, if you’d like.”

“I thought I heard him,” Kennedy murmurs, after a moment of silence. “He… he isn’t here.” It’s a statement, but Bush hears the question in it. 

“You mean Mr. Hornblower? No. No, he’s not. It’s late.”

“Late?” Kennedy repeats, breathlessly. “Oh.” 

“They are due at trial in the morning,” Bush continues. 

“God,” Kennedy moans. “It’s madness.”

Bush agrees. “But they let Sir Edward on the tribunal. It’s as if they want him to get off, eh?”

“He loves him. Pellew, I mean. He’ll fight for him.” 

“I daresay you’re correct, Mr. Kennedy. D’you think he’ll fight for us?”

Kennedy huffs, and Bush relaxes somewhat at the sound. It would seem that nothing at all can dampen Mr. Kennedy’s sense of humor. Good man. 

The church bell strikes for one o’clock. Bush thinks that perhaps it is time to return to his own bed, although frankly, he does not feel much like sleeping. His body aches, and he feels nauseated with the pain. There is a window near Mr. Kennedy’s bed, and the cool air feels good on his skin. 

“Did I wake you?” asks Kennedy, so quiet that Bush has to lean forward slightly to hear him. 

“No, no. Don’t worry yourself.” 

“I can hardly tell the difference between sleeping and not.” There is the slightest touch of fear in his voice. “Sometimes I’m afraid I’m already dead.”

Bush finds the young man’s hand and holds it. “Let me call the guard. He’ll get Clive, and—”

Kennedy hisses through his teeth. “I don’t want Clive. It isn’t...” Fresh tears roll down the younger man’s cheeks. 

“Archie—” 

“I’m just scared.” 

_They’re both frightened, then._

“There’s nothing to be afraid of.” Bush feels Kennedy’s fingers tighten around his own. “It’ll be all right,” he soothes. 

“I’m going to die, aren’t I?”

“Look at me, Mr. Kennedy.” 

Bush has sat with dying men before, but never has he so fervently resented the circumstances of this duty. This is not how it should be—not for Archie Kennedy. 

“No one’s saying that,” Bush tells him, firmly. “I’ve seen men come back from worse.” 

Kennedy whimpers wordlessly. 

Bush swallows a hard lump in his throat. “Even so, death isn’t so bad,” he murmurs. “It’s peaceful, I hear. Like a calm.” He gathers the edge of his sleeve and uses it to wipe at Kennedy’s flushed face. 

“A calm?” Kennedy echoes. 

“Aye,” Bush smooths the damp hair from the young man’s forehead. “I’ve heard men speak of a white light, brighter than the sun.”

Kennedy shifts under him. “A light, Mr. Bush… _God_ , you mean?”

“Don’t you think?”

Kennedy smiles—or rather, his lips turn vaguely upward, although his brow remains dark. “God won’t have me,” he says. 

Bush can’t help but be slightly taken aback. “You’re so sure?” he asks, frowning. “You’re a better man than I.” 

Kennedy ignores this. Instead, he turns his eyes toward the ceiling. More tears, Bush notices, and he wipes at them dutifully. 

Kennedy’s breath hitches. “I don’t want to go.” 

“I know,” Bush says helplessly. “I know.”

Kennedy moans, perhaps pained, perhaps frightened. Likely both. “I want to see him.”

“Who?”

Kennedy’s lip trembles. “Horatio.” 

Bush swallows again. “I’ll ask for him. In the morning, I’ll ask.” 

“I’ll say I did it,” Kennedy mutters, “that I pushed Sawyer.”

Bush is silent. He looks down at the young man beneath him, his boyish face contorted with a pain far greater than Bush can comprehend. Kennedy’s eyes are pinned on him, pleading. 

“They’d see you hang, Mr. Kennedy,” says Bush, his mind working furiously for a means to halt this line of discussion. It wouldn’t be right. It wouldn’t be right, and yet Bush can understand the man’s logic. If he is indeed dying—although Bush still clings to some hope that this is not the case—his confession would see the rest of them go free. But good god, the man’s name. The poor man’s name. 

“They’d ruin you,” Bush adds. “You’d forfeit your wages…” 

“I don’t care,” says Kennedy, with something approaching desperation. “I won’t see him hang.”

Bush can only gape at him, at a loss. 

“It would be good for you, too,” Kennedy reminds him. 

“You didn’t push him,” Bush argues weakly, as if that would make any difference. 

Kennedy merely closes his eyes. He is breathing with greater difficulty, and Bush can see that he is quickly losing the strength to speak. “God, it hurts,” he moans. 

That’s it— _enough is enough_. Bush calls hoarsely for the guard. “Get the surgeon, please!” 

The man jerks awake, mumbles “yes, sir,” and hurries down the hall. 

Bush looks down to see Kennedy blinking at him. “Don’t shout,” he mouths. 

Clive hurries into the room some moments later, flanked by the marine. “Mr. Bush,” he says, wiping the sleep from his eyes. “What’s the matter?”

“He’s in pain.”

Clive approaches Kennedy’s bed and leans over the young man. He takes Kennedy’s trembling hand in his. “All right, Mr. Kennedy, all right,” he soothes, performing a perfunctory check of the young man’s breathing and the function of his heart. 

“Has he been exerting himself?” 

“We’ve been speaking,” Bush admits. 

Clive shoots him a stern look. “You shouldn’t, Mr. Bush.” He straightens, gathering his dressing gown about his shoulders. He goes to his shelf and Bush listens to him pour a tincture of laudanum—presumably—from a glass decanter. 

“Here you are, Mr. Kennedy,” says Clive, returning to his bedside. Kennedy makes a small noise at the back of his throat and shakes his head. “Come on, man.” 

Clive takes Kennedy’s jaw and gently angles his head. Kennedy relents and parts his lips. 

“Mr. Bush,” says Clive, after he is done. The surgeon holds out his arm, and Bush eyes it reluctantly. “Come, sir, to bed.” 

Bush looks down at Kennedy, who is watching him through heavily lidded eyes. The young smiles faintly, as if to see him off. 

Bush relents and takes the surgeon’s hand. Upon standing, the dull pain in his belly comes roaring to life. He sways ponderously, suddenly dizzy with it, although it passes quickly once he is sat on his mattress. The surgeon eases him onto his back, and Bush finds that he is quite unable to say a single word. He lies flat, shivering as the pain ebbs.

“Perhaps you should have some as well,” says Clive.

Bush shakes his head. “I’m fine,” he lies. “Is he all right?” 

“He is the same.” 

Bush will not ask if Kennedy will live. He knows that the answer will not be one that he wants to hear, and he will not risk Kennedy himself overhearing the question. 

“I will have Mr. Cooper check on him more frequently tonight,” Clive tells him, “in case he needs a stronger dose.” 

Bush nods, and Clive gives his knee a brief squeeze. “I assure you; I’ll do all I can to keep him comfortable.” With a brief salute, the surgeon takes his leave, and Bush is left alone once more with the noise of Kennedy’s breathing. Still uneven, but softer now.

“William.” He almost misses his name as it’s spoken so quietly. 

“Don’t speak. It’ll tire you.” 

“Consider what I said.”

Bush screws his eyes shut. “It won’t come to that.”

“You mustn’t let him hang.”

“Go to sleep, man,” Bush begs him. He will promise nothing—not now. Kennedy may yet live, and then neither Bush nor Hornblower would dream of accepting such an arrangement. No, it simply would not do at all. 

Some minutes pass in silence, but Bush finds himself unable to let the matter go. He turns toward Kennedy’s bed once more. He is not angry at Kennedy, per se, but he is angry. “Do not let your love for Mr. Hornblower cloud your judgment, sir,” he mutters, before he can stop himself. 

Kennedy does not answer, and for a moment, Bush fears that he has crossed a boundary he should not have crossed. But no, he soon realizes that Kennedy has merely fallen asleep. His stillness and the rhythm of his breathing suggest as much. Thank God for that. Bush hopes that the dose of laudanum he received will make him forget the whole damn conversation. 

Still feeling quite restless, Bush lies awake for a while longer, listening. 

**Author's Note:**

> I love suffering!


End file.
